


pilot's seat

by aMassiveDisappointment (BadOldWest)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Back rubs, Cunnilingus, Everyone lives, F/M, If you think Cassian doesn't have a praise kink you're wrong, Masturbation, Sass, Sexual Tension, everyone's a top until they're not, voyeur Jyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10029776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/aMassiveDisappointment
Summary: Cassian, Jyn, A long-ass mission, too-tight quarters, a power struggle, sexual tension. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

The pilot’s seat is not meant to become a staple in their relationship, but like most of the things that pass between them, it is chosen for its convenience and seamless inclusion in their routine.

They’re a good team. They fly plenty of missions together. 

Which sometimes means long, aching hours of a journey sat in two pilot’s seats. Killing time. Time they didn’t know they had. 

It’s tight quarters and close proximity, which begins with hands on shoulders. Sometimes the slightest bit of space rock will knock them with turbulence. He’s more used to flying these ships, so he’s the first to gentle her with a hand on her shoulder. Just the fanning of his fingers over her jacket the weight of his palm pressed there. It’s a small sensation, but a pleasant one, so small they don’t seem to notice that it’s a first step. 

One mission they get tossed more violently than usual, and his hands are shaking, and it’s her hand on him that is steadying. It takes more effect on him. She’s run on instinct, so the act of kindness of a gentle touch is physically but not mentally processed. He’s calculating. Cautious. Churning the action through his head after his body is so visibly eased. 

Her hand stays when his was always quick. But it still lifts off him all too soon, back to her controls as they straighten out the flight pattern. 

 

The next time he touches her, his thumb slides under the collar of her shirt, stroking a line up her neck. It’s a little unintentional, mindless during the slightest dip in altitude in their orbit. His hand stayed on her shoulder though, thumb curiously stroking. 

He doesn’t notice she’s not breathing as he does it. The pad of his thumb finds a natural resting place in the ridge of her collarbone, nestled between the thin skin there and the curve of her neck. 

He remembers himself, but it’s too late, it’s like time has stopped, and he felt her heartbeat, and he feels what he did to her, and they’ve both been caught with things they can’t take back. 

But he tries, excuses himself with a need for caff, and leaves her alone at the controls. 

 

She is woken up by another sharp rumble of the ship avoiding an asteroid. Her feet were propped on the dash and she fell asleep just like that. Cassian is ready at the controls, glancing at her with a cautious smile.

“That’s what you get for putting your feet on the dashboard.”

She rolls her eyes at him, dropping them to the floor and groaning at the crick in her neck. 

“You should sleep.”

“I just did. I can do just as much of this job as you can.”

He considers the stars in the distance. 

“Never said you couldn’t.”

“ _ You  _ should sleep.”

He stares at her a moment, then shakes himself out of the silence he created. 

“Maybe I should,” he concedes, rising from his seat. “You’ll be okay here alone?”

“I just got my rest for the night. It’s your turn.”

Shoulder-touches have already become their standard of greeting. But he rests his hand on the shoulder farther from him, the non-neutral shoulder, where it seems less accidental. With him standing next to her chair, facing her, with his hand creating a closeness. She stares up at him, swallowing. All he has to do was lean down and kiss her on the head. She can picture it. She can practically feel it. She looks as pinned as she feels, and he withdraws carefully. 

“Night,” he mumbles tiredly. 

She stares out at the stars, knowing she won’t be falling asleep anytime soon after that. 

 

Hips brush as they fumble out of their seats. Legs stretch out to invade personal space. She once feigns exasperation at his barely-there delay and reaches over to meddle with his controls, flipping switches in a way that brings her body dangerously close to his. She could feel him breathing heavily in her ear. 

His knees rise up abruptly and jostle her, so she falls clumsily to his lap, granting him more contact than she was prepared to give, so no she’s the flustered one. She withdraws, with less grace than he did, and sulks in her seat beside him for a few hours. 

She pushes him to the edge with a firm kiss on his lips before exiting to sleep during her turn to rest the next night. Plants one, rough and dominating, more about heaving his body into her embrace than the quick brush of lips. Her hands hold him by his hair, too close for him to have the grounds to shove her away. Then she drops him and trots off to rest. 

 

Cabin fever takes over. 

She sees him grimace as he fidgets in his chair. They almost create a relay out of their pacing; she goes on a loop through the ship and once she’s buckled back in he can get up and do the same. They don’t spend any time sitting beside each other besides coming and going, and that is crammed with “accidental” touches, unspoken intentions, averted gazes. Her chest slides across his as she moves past him, a spark fraying both of their edges. She feels the ghost of his tingling on her skin after he leaves. Their lips were so close. If they’d been looking at each other, they both know, they would have kissed. 

 

He groans next to her, rubbing his hands down his lower back, and she knows she can’t be the only one who feels like her spine has locked up. 

“Lean forward,” she says softly, hand settling between his shoulder blades. 

He glares at her. 

“Jacket off,” she orders, and he grumbles and frees one arm, then the other, tossing the jacket clumsily out of the cabin. Her hand settled back between his shoulder, gently kneading very obvious knots. He even groans from her haphazard healing technique; which means he’s in pretty bad shape. 

“Sit forward in your seat,” she orders sharply, and he complies with a face twisted in pain. She slides into his seat behind him, straddling it because her legs have nowhere else to go. Her knees hug his hips tightly to prevent herself from losing balance. 

Her thumbs dig into the muscle under her shoulders, and he trembles and moment. She works the whole of his back under her hands, it’s a mess and he needed this a long time ago. She’s not the best at this, but it’s better than nothing. It feels good, more than she’ll ever admit, to get to know the shape of him like this. His muscular back has contour and tension, and she’s very disappointed she hadn’t sprung for him removing his shirt too, but she had been toeing the line with this whole ordeal. 

“Feel better?” she says, when she finally reaches his lower back. His whole body has gone soft in her hands. 

He nods. 

She smooths a hand over the back of his neck, which she’s neglected. With a gentle hand, she manages to work out the tension there. 

“I can’t believe you’re being so good for me,” she observes, her hand threading in his hair.

He rises abruptly. 

“I should get some sleep,” he sounds groggier than ever, and she’s mildly surprised they haven’t killed each other yet. 

 

The next day, after hours of sitting beside each other in silence, a hand settles firmly on her leg. 

“Feet. Off. The Dashboard.”

Her arms cross over her chest.

“Or what?”

He sees it in her eyes. How stir-crazy and jagged she feels. Just as much as he does. Her need to rebel. How she hates he’s the only person she can bounce any emotions off of. 

He wedges himself between her and the controls in front of her. Her legs bracket him. She realizes he pulled them down and arranged them that way. He’s crouched at her feet, untying her boots, fingers popping open the fly of her pants. 

“You seem to need this,” he says patronizingly, and even while glaring at him, she shifts her hips up to help him pull her pants down her legs. He kisses the inside of her knee, holding her by the feet and bringing them to rest on his shoulders as he mouths his way up her thigh. His thumb swipes the arch of one foot, and it feels delicious, the gentle touch undoing her more than the prospect of pleasure does. 

“I don’t need-” she sinks down in the seat as his tongue takes a harsh swipe at her. 

“It was that or take you over my knee. Be grateful I’m feeling generous.”

“You’re so tough,” she growls sarcastically, which turns into a delicious purr when he laps at her again. He talks big, but he’s the one on his knees in front of her, nothing less than worshipping her; groaning in a way that pleads, hands greedily seeking her hips to bring himself closer, and she knows this is as much for him as it is for her. He’s giving her what she needs because he’s that kind of person. 

His tongue, wet and alive, is sliding inside her. The scratch of his stubble, the texture of the seat under her naked ass, his soft moans, there are too many sensations. Her toes spasm with pleasure. Her back arches. They both ignore the cracking sound in her spine from hours of slouching boredly. Her thighs clamp around his head. It’s so filthy, sitting at her pilot’s seat, her authority and her power exerted not only over the ship but over this man. His hair is so soft between her fingers. She keens and wriggles and fucks his mouth because she can’t resist doing otherwise. 

She looks down at him and his eyebrows are drawn together in a blissed-out scrunch and she realizes he’s getting just as much pleasure out of this. Her noises reach peak volume at this, trying to give him the praise he needs but never finding the words. He grows wild at the reaction he needed, burying her face in her and loving her with his mouth. 

She isn’t sure if one orgasm lasts a lifetime or if he just draws one after another after another. She resents him for giving her another thing to like about him. 

He combs his fingers through his hair when he rises, only when she’s so limp she nearly has to be peeled off the floor.

She curls up in her chair and watches him get situated at the controls, like nothing happened. His chin shines with her wetness. She wants to run her tongue over the stubble and taste herself there. 

“Does this mean you’re going to behave?” She asks languidly, placing her bare feet on the dashboard again, loving how his eyes shoot to the skin of her legs stretched out before him. She's taken care of, but only for now, which is as dangerous as how he's not been taken care of at all. 

He is nothing less than gruff in response, but she knows what his tongue feels like inside her. She doesn’t know what’s more satisfying; that knowledge or the knowledge that he will inevitably want revenge. 


	2. Chapter 2

Cassian’s mouth is caressing the inside of her thigh with a whisper of her own name. He looks up at her like he loves being there, at the foot of her bed, with her legs hitched over his shoulders. She sees his dark eyes glittering, a small smile touching his face, sideways and self-conscious. 

She hears it again; “Jyn.”

“Jyn?”

She flinches awake, almost blinded by a color that is not just black space, but a downy blue of a new planet’s atmosphere. Bespin. They’d made it. 

She glances back to the subject of her dream, who watches her cautiously. He is not lying between her thighs on soft sheets, tickling her with his hair. He is a respectable distance away in his seat, not touching her. A shame. 

“We made good time. Maybe would could have stood to land on some moon, get some decent rest. But it’s good. It would have been worse to be late.”

She nods, swallowing thickly, because every inner muscle is coiling and uncoiling, chasing a phantom pleasure, and it doesn’t vanish quickly, it’s like all the air in her body is slowly being pulsed into his. 

She looks ahead at Bespin, nodding. It’s an unpretty, but simple mission. Shoot an empire dignitary, get out, et cetera; she’d slacked off on the briefing. All she knew was assassination, and she wasn’t the one behind the hired gun. Cassian eye’s were dark when they were assigned. She knew he wasn’t wild about this side of the rebellion. There wasn’t much dignity to taking out an unarmed man from a distance. Necessity dictated all of his choices, and he needed the rebellion as much as it needed him. 

“What do you suggest to kill time?” she shoots back dryly, but he’s focused at the controls. Travel, if made efficiently, was when he was at his most relaxed, once they closed the gap between base and the mission, he grew firm, grim, like the person she’d first met.

“Our mark is supposed to be back in his office tomorrow afternoon. I say we land as close to that time as possible so our ship doesn’t pick up on any security recordings while we kill time down there.”

“Agreed. My question still begs answering.”

He glances at her, his eye sharp. 

“We land on one of Bespin’s moons. Then I’m going to get some sleep. You should too.”

After they land on the dark side of a small moon, he rises before she has a chance to mention what happened. 

“Get your feet off the dashboard,” he says sharply, then leaves her alone.

 

She lies in her bunk, wondering if he’ll join her. It could be nice, have his chest against hers, their bodies intertwined in sleep. Warm. Space was so cold. She sometimes pictured him in the jacket he wore on Jedha with the big fluffy hood, opening it up and allowing her to crawl inside and nestle against him, but only because that jacket looked so damn warm. 

She craves his body. She doesn’t want him to make her come and she doesn’t want his cock inside her and she doesn’t want him to fuck her; she just craves his body in whatever form she can get. 

 

They prepare the same shit food they’ve been eating the whole mission, each quietly pouring water into a packet and watching it erupt into some semblance of a meal. 

“How’d you sleep?” she asks, and cringes, because they weren’t the kind of people for small-talk. 

He’s quiet a moment.

“Not well,” he admits softly.

“Me neither,” she’s more brisk. “I think it’s the confinement. We can’t keep having the same conversation or we’ll drive each other crazy, you know? But you could have joined me, being sleepless and all.”

This is what happens when she tries to start conversations before caff.

He rises from the table, tossing out the remnants of his food in the garbage shoot. He only murmurs this as he brushes past her, like he can stand to not have her hear it:

“If I started sleeping in your bed, I’m not sure I could stand going back to sleeping alone.”

 

He double-checks his blaster for the fourth time, and if that meant four double-checks, he has checked a total of eight times at this point, all of which Jyn observed with a level of boredom and concern only she could achieve. 

She knows he’s worried. About the things he’d done. About what he’s about to do. What this means for what kind of man he is. 

_ The best kind  _ she wants to tell him. She can’t take this obsession, this self-hatred, this doubt. Not from him. He doesn't deserve it. 

She remembers what he did for her. Everything he’s done for her. She’s messier than he is, less efficient, more headstrong. But she wants to show that she’ll do the same thing for him. Give him what he needs. 

She sinks to her knees in front of him, as he did her. 

“You need to relax.” her hands settle on his legs. He glances down at her, unaffected but for a bob of his adam’s apple. 

If he’s going to be that way, so can she. 

“And a shower,” she wrinkles her nose at him. It’s not his fault, they’re both the kind of dirty that only a lack of fresh air can provide. It’s only half true anyway. His hair is still sticking up from where her hands dug into it, and she wants the evidence gone until she can make more.

He nods stiffly. 

They find themselves in the threshold of the ‘fresher, not touching but for the occasion brush of arm and shoulder. 

Finally, he turns his head at her.

“So how are we going to do this?”

She leans up against the counter, pointedly not looking at him. 

“Strip.”

He raises his eyebrows, almost coyly.

“Are you going to be good for me?” she parrots, her eyes settling on him like a slap. 

He shakes his head a moment, letting her admire his clothed body for a moment before dropping his jacket. 

“I didn’t know you liked to watch.”

“I didn’t know either,” she admits, remembering all past encounters in dark rooms and dingier settings. Not ideal places for contemplative admiration. 

He goes for boots next, which is logical, but not very sexy. She leans back on her elbows boredly. Her face gives nothing away; assessing, impartial. 

He drops his shirt to the floor next. She holds a hand for him to go slower. His torso is threaded with scars, some delicate lines, some marred patches. She likes that the right side of his ribcage looks different than the left. That there are marks and freckles and edges that are unique to him. Her eyes scan hungrily, a little mean on hunger, and his stomach drops at the sight of how she’s feasting on the sight of him. 

“Perhaps I’ll pretend you only like to watch when it’s me,” he says softly, his head tilted down but his eyes searching and imploring.

She swallows. Her whole face is unreadable. 

“I’ll allow it.”

Slowly, under that watchful eye, he gets naked. He stands before her, challenging, cocksure. They can’t tell who exactly this is for; Cassian so obviously will be the one being touched with her so fully clothed, but Jyn seems a mass of sexual fuses ready to blow. 

She circles him, having surged into motion too quickly for him to process. Her brows are raised as though she’s appraising him. 

Her hands lands on his cock, barely palming it, like she’s appraising that too. She won’t look at his face, just him growing hard in her hand. He fidgets, his head falling back. He has a soldier’s stance; hands behind his back, feet apart, back straight. Respectful to his authority, like a well trained captain. 

“Get in the shower,” she orders, and he obeys, staring back at her, breathless, like he’s waiting for her to strip and join him. 

“I don’t think you want it enough,” she says by way of explanation, returning to the counter and hauling herself up to sit there while he showers. 

He’s not allowed himself any noises through all of this, save for some quickened breaths. 

“So now what?” he asks her, challenging. 

“Show me how much you want it.”

His hand fists his cock like he was waiting for that exact order, and honestly, her small hand would have attempted softer strokes. His touches were without finesse, rough and utilitarian but oh so perfectly dirty. He stares directly at her the whole time. He’s not thinking of fucking her. He’s getting himself off so she can watch him, which is so inappropriate for every aspect of their mission but perfect for them. 

The shower mists his body in a way that should not be allowed, he looks so perfect she can’t even bring herself to ruin the image, though her second highest desire is to do just that. 

His free hand touches the glass separating them, his palm an offering of longing, and her heart surges. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” she murmurs. It’s what he needs to hear. 

When he comes, he says her name. He knows she’s there when it happens. But by the time he’s out of the ‘fresher, she’s gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....I lied. This is getting three chapters, and way more depth than I initially intended. It's Diego Luna's fault. Whoops. 
> 
> Keep reviewing! It means a lot and keeps me writing!!!


	3. Chapter 3

_ A mission is a mission is a mission.  _ she drawls in her own head, checking her blaster, but not the same number of times Cassian has. She watches his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows for the millionth time, lulling her head to glance at him pointedly. 

Her feet are on the dashboard, have been since landing on Bespin. He ignores this.

Cassian is nothing but punctual. And efficient. From where he’d directed their landing, he wouldn’t have to stray far from the ship at all, which is good, because Jyn would have to fly it back to base if he made it on or not.

She can feel the tension in his body, tension she longed to relieve again. Maybe he needed the edge of no touch. Knowing that he was wanted, but not yet needed. Not enough to have her break and ravage him on the slick tile floor. Not yet. 

“Something to wait for,” she said earlier, by way of explanation, when he was dried and dressed and back in chaste closeness. She had sort of shrugged. 

He stared at the floor. Before taking his seat beside her. Resigned. 

“You should get going.”

His eyes snap to hers, defensive.

“Not yet,” he has it timed down to the minute.

She shifts in her seat. 

“It’ll be over soon.”

“The war? I have a hard time believing that.”

She sighs, closes her eyes. 

“The  _ mission _ .”

He rolls his eyes to stare at the ceiling. 

“There’s always the next one.”

Finally, she can’t take his dread, and closes her hand around his. 

Hers is the one that is shaking. 

His eyes land on hers. She knows where this is going. And that he’s an honest man, in his sad eyes and grim mouth. She knows that he’ll do things even if they’re hard. 

He leaves, because it’s time, because he has to, and because they’re both about to say things that can’t be taken back. 

 

Jyn isn’t sure how long he’s gone. She has a newsfeed on a portable screen on her lap. She chews her thumb as she keeps refreshing. Waiting for it:  _ Dignitary shot. Dignitary shot. Dignitary... _

She hears feet thundering up the ramp of the ship, only one person, but still has her blaster ready in her hand until Cassian appears, slumped and defeated, roaring at her to get this ship off the ground. 

She knows the orders. They had to be clear out in a getaway, passing base by solar systems, to make sure they weren’t being tailed. She has flying to do, and it can’t wait. 

He collapses in the seat beside her and buckles with shaking hands. She steadily accounts her actions out loud step by step, as though she’s getting his approval, just so he has something to focus on. He nods grimly, pale-faced, as the sky around them is no longer that soft blue and is now the black of deep space. 

“Are you alright?” she asks when the surge forward slows, when she thinks they’ve gotten enough distance. They haven’t been tailed, and there was any direction they could have gone that involved  _ forward _ and  _ away _ , so she doesn’t suspect much trouble. 

He’s quiet. He still holds his side. She remembers the agony he felt when they first thought they were going to die. They don’t talk about it. How they wouldn’t mind being the last thing each other saw, held. 

“Hey,” she threads her hand in the hair at the base of his skull, “Are you hurt?”

She shifts towards him, turning in her seat, and pushes on his head so it rests on her shoulder. She scratches his scalp in a gentle massage, the way her mother did when she held her as a child. His hair smells clean. 

“I delayed. His daughter was in his office, and I…”

He’s breathing harshly.

“Cassian,” she whispers, “it’s okay.”

“I waited until she left, and that lost us time, but I couldn’t.”

“I know.” 

She rocks him back and forth a little. She shifts her hand to brush along his temple, which is flushed and tense under her fingertips. 

“Are you hurt?”

“It could have been you, Jyn.”

The force of his voice is gentle. He’s not agonizingly wrenching out sentiments. But the cadence of his voice is raw. 

“I’m worried about your side.”

His head is under her chin, so he doesn’t have to look at her when he says it:

“She’ll have to live with that.”

“I know.”

Her hand dips down and finds blood. 

“Let’s get some bacta on that.”

She eases him up. He won’t lift his eyes from the floor. 

 

They go to the cramped kitchen. She eases off his jacket and shirt. She has him sit on the counter. His side is bruised and bloody, but nothing is punctured or severed. She heaves a sigh of relief. She presses the sanitized pad to his skin. He flinches, closes his eyes. But he lets her work. His hands are loose in front of him. Passive. 

“You forgave me for your father, but I…”

He’s calmer. More in control of what he’s saying.

Her hands fall to tangle her fingers delicately in his. She presses her forehead to his brow, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“If anyone has a right to be angry at you after that, it’s me. _And I’m not_.”

His fingers form a tight grasp on her hands, and they stay like that for a long time.

 

She redirects their coordinates to base, now that they’ve cleared galaxies to make sure they weren’t being followed. Contacts base. Mission accomplished. She showers, gives him space to think. Thinks about her parents. The little girl who closed the door to her father’s office and didn’t know she’d never see him again. 

She finds Cassian in his pilot’s seat at what would be evening, if they had a sun’s rotation to determine that. 

She bends down to look at his shrunken form. 

“What is it?” she puts a hand on his shoulder, “What do you need? What is it?”

With shaking hands, he presses his palms to her cheeks and kisses her, cold and desperate lips molded to hers. 

It’s immediate. Hands tearing at clothes and arms wrapping tight and bodies fitting together. He’s not quite rogue-ish yet, but there is something cocksure about the way he tilts his head back lazily as his hand works her between her legs like she’s his control panel. On his lap, where he sits in his pilot’s seat, she feels like he is navigating something. She leans back further to allow him the control, and there it is, a little bit wry, but a smile all the same. It’s gone as soon as his mouth closes around one of her nipples, but she’s smug to know it was there. That’s the last thought before she shudders at how good he is with his tongue. 

His thumb slides in efficient, sure circles. She likes that he’s sure, even when his eyes check to see if she’s enjoying it, his hands don’t falter, his lips don’t stutter excuses. It’s that faith he inspires from her that has her coming so easily, quickly, readily. She just goes limp and soft and ready, draping herself over him in a rare act of submission. 

Layers peel off with indignant shucking motions. She craves the order, her order, that took place in the shower the day before. But it’s his turn, and by the way he clings, the way he eases her back and forth over his hard cock, making her want it, she can tell that this is exactly what he needs. 

“I want you so much,” she admits with a gasp, “Not just here. Even back on base. Even when you’re in another galaxy on a mission without me.” 

“Doesn’t ever stop,” he agrees, mouthing up her neck. 

She remembers his words: _ If I started sleeping in your bed, I’m not sure I could stand going back to sleeping alone. _

This is why they had been so afraid of  _ starting _ . 

Not now. Not anymore. There is no better time for him to be inside her, and because she’s so wet, it happens before they seem to realize it is. 

Her head falls back with a harsh gasp. He feels so perfect inside her

She’s naked on his lap, her limbs dangling as he moves her over him. Her arms are draped around his shoulders and are otherwise limp, her feet brushing the floor. Once he’s been sheathed inside her, there was little for her to do to ground herself. It is a small chair, she can’t plant her knees on either side and ride him. He is totally in control. It’s a strange vulnerability. 

A hand grasps the back of her neck, and he works harder thrusts up into her. She can tell he’s close with the way he’s breathing and how his neck is corded in determination to wait. She presses her hands down on his shoulders to get some leverage and grinds down on him, little sounds escaping her lips as she get friction where she needs it. He grips her thigh with his other hand, white-knuckled, and the way that raises one knee makes all the difference. She tenses against him, her chest against his chest, getting all of him that she craved in sleep. Her inner muscles desperately clench down on him and that tightening finishes him in a way that sincerely makes him think this will end him. Her face burrows in the crook of his neck as she moans. His hand on her neck slides down to hold on to her gently, stroking her spine. 

They kiss, sloppily, lazily, until he fiddles with the controls behind her back with one hand, dropping them onto the closest hunk of rock with an actual steady orbit. She lays against him as he does, not knowing how long it takes. 

“Sleep?” she murmurs.

He nods, kissing her brow. 

“My bed,” she orders, eyes still closed. 

He chuckles, lifting her up as he stands. He doesn’t put her down, which she’ll allow, this one time. 

“Did you think this was stopping anytime soon?” he teases, stroking a hand up and down her back as he made his way down the corridor. 

_ Never _ .

She thinks it, but doesn’t say it, because that isn’t a promise she can keep to him. The promise, from both of them, is that they started this. She looks over his shoulder at their empty chairs, and she’s actually sad to leave them, because it looks like where they belong. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Wow. This is my first RebelCaptain fic and since starting it I’ve begun work on three more. Yikes. If you are interested in more, I’ve written and posted an Imperial Russian AU, and will soon post my version of the beach scene (where sorry, they do die) and I’m toying with the idea of a rebelcaptian-centric Jyn/Cassian/Bodhi fic, I mean, if that has anyone interested...

**Author's Note:**

> New to writing these two. Please help me.


End file.
